Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2)

by NORTON, CARLA

  “And yearbooks, right?” She suffers a sharp memory of her conversation with Nikki Keswick.

  “Yeah, Flint and Wertz had a photography business. We always wondered how Flint made his living. But he mostly mooched off Wertz, who had a whale of an inheritance.”

  “Psychopaths tend to be parasitic.”

  He gives her a half smile. “Yes, they do.”

  “And speaking of psychopaths, what about Flint’s mother?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she under arrest?”

  “No. Why?”

  Blankenship takes notes, mouth crimped shut, while Reeve explains her theory that Dr. Moody’s former assistant, the blond woman named Cybil, didn’t commit suicide. Reeve says she’s sure that Mrs. Pratt killed her.

  Blankenship scarcely responds, and when she runs out of words, he gives her a quick nod, glances at his watch, and closes his notebook. “Your father ordered me to keep it short. As did Dr. Lerner. He says you’ve got a lot of people waiting for you down in California. Pretty nice that he brought his private plane to take you home.”

  “Yeah, I never expected that.” She takes a breath. “Before you go, I wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry I won’t be here for Nikki Keswick’s funeral.”

  She watches his Adam’s apple slide up and down, his eyes water.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.” He sighs heavily. “I feel like . . . I don’t know . . . like somebody took a sledgehammer to my chest.”

  “You liked her a lot.”

  “I loved her. Everybody loved her. Nikki was so . . . filled with promise, so . . .” He looks down at his knuckles, shakes his head, then opens his empty palms.

  “I know how terrible it is to lose someone you love,” Reeve says, thinking of her mother.

  He clears his throat and changes the subject. “So, anyway, I hear that your prognosis is not too bad.”

  She gives a small twitch of the shoulder. “Hypothermia, lacerations, some spectacular bruises.”

  He frowns at her. “Yeah, plus a couple of broken ribs.”

  “Could be worse.”

  He gets to his feet, saying, “Well, it hasn’t exactly been a pleasure, has it? But you sure surprised the heck out of everybody.”

  “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

  “So, what are your plans after college?”

  “Who knows?”

  He gives her a level look. “You have a talent for this, you know.”

  “A talent for what?”

  “Criminal investigation, forensics.”

  Her eyebrows lift, but before she can respond, the agent has turned his back.

  “You take care,” he says, raising a hand as he disappears out the door.

  An hour later, Reeve is swinging her legs over the side of the hospital bed, anxious for the nurse to bring the discharge papers. She’s dressed in jeans and a sweater, clothes that her roommates sent up with her father. She sends a quick text message thanking Lana, while her father and her psychiatrist linger at her bedside, waiting with her.

  Years younger and several inches shorter than her father, Dr. Ezra Lerner is such an energetic, fit, compact man that he almost appears primed for a gymnastic competition. Her father, on the other hand, looks in need of rest, with dark circles under red-rimmed eyes.

  Reeve has been trying hard to seem perky, hoping to ease the worry lines etched deep into her father’s face. But he responds to her every comment with the patient nods and wan smiles always granted the sick.

  “You didn’t need to fly up here, but thanks,” she says. “If the news people are watching Sea-Tac airport, they’re going to be disappointed.”

  Dr. Lerner grins. “You don’t get airsick, do you?”

  She shakes her head. She has seen photographs of Dr. Lerner’s Cessna, but has never flown in anything other than a commercial airliner. “I’m actually kind of excited about flying in your plane. But you’re just back from Brazil. Don’t you have jet lag?”

  “I’m back on Pacific time already. And it’s perfect flying weather.”

  At last the nurse arrives with a wheelchair and discharge papers. After a few signatures, Reeve is free to go. She gets to her feet, trying not to wince. Her muscles feel as though they’re stitched together with barbed wire.

  Her father is watching her closely.

  She meets his eye and smiles, saying, “Just a little stiff, Dad.”

  He pats her shoulder. There are a thousand unanswered questions between them, but there will be plenty of time to sort everything out.

  “I feel fine, really. Just a little bruised. I don’t need a wheelchair to take me out.”

  The nurse insists on hospital protocol, but allows Mr. LeClaire to steer his daughter’s wheelchair along the corridor toward the exit. Dr. Lerner hurries ahead to bring the car.

  Soon the front doors whoosh open and Reeve emerges into a crisp, fall day. She inhales the fresh air. As she stands, she briefly closes her eyes to savor the warmth of the sun on her eyelids.

  During the ride to the Anacortes airstrip, her phone rings. The man identifies himself as Dr. Moody’s attorney, calling to notify her that the Moody family is sending her a check for seventy-five thousand dollars.

  She nearly chokes. She’d forgotten all about the reward money. When she starts to protest that she doesn’t want it, her father raises a finger, saying, “Might I suggest something?”

  Reeve asks the attorney to hold on for a moment.

  “If you don’t want the money for yourself,” her father says, “perhaps there are others with whom you’d like to share it? Just a thought.”

  “Dad, that’s brilliant.”

  She quickly asks the attorney if the reward can be divided equally among the families of Daryl Wayne Flint’s victims. He sounds surprised, but agrees that can be arranged.

  “Please make sure that Jenna Dutton gets a share. And Nikki Keswick’s family must be included, too, of course.”

  The attorney points out that seventy-five thousand dollars split nine ways won’t be a large sum. But Reeve does a quick calculation in her head and says, “I think eight thousand-plus will buy a lot of baby clothes. Jenna Dutton. You wrote that down, right?”

  They arrive at the small airport while she and the attorney are making arrangements. Dr. Lerner has just parked the car when she disconnects.

  As she gets out, she sees JD Bender leaning against his green pickup truck, waiting for her. He looks so tall and handsome and healthy that she can’t help but say, “Wow.”

  “How are you feeling?” he says, walking toward her.

  “I’m just a little bruised, is all.”

  “A little bruised? I heard you thought you could fly.”

  She starts to laugh, but winces. “It only hurts when I laugh.”

  “I’ll try to be more serious, then.” He pauses. “We’ve all been so worried about you.”

  She gives him a searching look. “How’s your dad?”

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, one minute and I’ll get him on the phone.”

  She cups JD’s phone to her ear. A rush of relief flows through her the instant she hears Milo Bender’s voice.

  “Good morning young lady,” he says. “Was the food as bad in your hospital as it is in mine?”

  She starts to chuckle but stops, pressing her fingertips to her taped ribs. While they make small talk, she tries to match his light tone.

  After a minute, his voice seems to weaken. “These doctors are keeping me sedated. But I just wanted to say . . . I’m proud of you. You did good, kid.”

  Tears stand in her eyes. “Hey, that goes double for me, right back at you.”

  She hands the phone to JD, blinking rapidly. After he says good-bye and pockets the phone, she asks, “So your dad’s really going to be okay?”

  “He’ll be in the hospital a couple more days, but it’ll take more than a bullet to stop him.
That heart of his is turbocharged.” He grins, his face glowing in the sunlight.

  Together, they notice that Dr. Lerner and her father are standing beside a shiny aircraft, waiting.

  “I know you need to go,” JD says, “but before we say good-bye, I wanted to personally share a bit of good news.”

  “I like hearing good news.”

  “We’re going to be neighbors, kind of.”

  “What?”

  “I got a teaching gig at Cal State Monterey.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “I start in January, but I’ll be heading down a little early. So I was wondering if you’d like to go sailing. I mean, maybe I could stop by for visit. What do you think?”

  She recalls the stink of diesel and the roar of engines. “I’ve never been on a sailboat, but I always wanted to. It seems so quiet and clean.”

  “Great. It’s a date then. I can’t wait to show you my boat,” he says as they walk across the tarmac toward Dr. Lerner’s plane. “She’s a beauty. Her name is Eleuthera.”

  “I’ve never heard that before, but it’s pretty. Is Eleuthera a woman’s name?”

  “It sounds feminine, doesn’t it? But it’s actually a word with two meanings. For one, it’s the name of an island in the Bahamas.”

  “Nice. And the other meaning?”

  “Eleuthera is the Greek word for freedom.”

  She stops and looks into his eyes. Feeling emboldened, she rises up on her toes to lightly kiss him on the lips, then quickly turns and climbs into the plane.

  The next instant, the engines are roaring and she’s waving good-bye. An unfamiliar sweetness fills her chest as the plane accelerates down the runway and lifts into a sky of flawless blue.

  TWELVE YEARS AGO

  Rachel Lynn LeClaire

  Seattle, Washington

  For the first time in her young life, seventeen-year-old Rachel LeClaire believed she might actually have a future as an actress. She had played the lead in Grease at the high school auditorium for three nights, and she hadn’t flubbed her lines or hit a wrong note or missed her mark even once.

  She’d heard nothing but compliments shouted across the theater and whispered in her ear after each performance. And she was starting to believe that people weren’t simply being nice. They seemed to be looking at her differently. Complete strangers approached her, eyes shining, to say things she’d never heard before. They touched her elbow and claimed that she was by far the best one in the entire play.

  “You have an extraordinary stage presence, my dear, absolutely extraordinary,” one woman gushed.

  “You were dazzling! I was completely swept up in your performance,” said another.

  Even Chad Hart, the class president, had made a point of approaching her backstage to tell her that she was “totally, amazingly talented.”

  The last three nights had been a dream come true. Standing ovations! And after tonight’s performance, she’d been handed a huge bouquet of gorgeous long-stemmed red roses.

  “We’ll take these home and put them in a vase for you,” her mother had promised. “You stay and have fun with your friends.”

  The next instant, Rachel had been swept up in the cast party. Everyone was buzzing with excitement about how well the play had come together, despite wardrobe malfunctions, stage fright, and tears.

  Rachel declined a second slice of pizza and allowed herself only two bites of cake. She would have to watch her weight if she seriously hoped for an acting career. This was her dream. She liked her other classes well enough, but performance was her passion. She couldn’t imagine anything better than dedicating herself to music, dance, and theater.

  The only bad thing about tonight was that her cat was having kittens—if that was even a bad thing—so she would have to say good night and head home early. She didn’t want to miss her cat’s first litter.

  With final hugs all around, Rachel put on her coat and stepped out of the overheated room, thinking that, if even part of what all these people said was true, she might actually major in theater arts when she got to college. And if she worked really, really hard, maybe she could even make it to Hollywood or New York.

  The idea made her shiver with pleasure as she descended the well-lit steps and moved out into the night. The rain was coming down in earnest, and she clutched her purse tightly against her while fishing in her coat pocket for the car keys.

  “I’ve got an umbrella,” a man said, stepping toward her, opening his umbrella with a flourish. “Let me help you. Where are you parked?”

  “Oh!” Startled by his sudden appearance, she blinked at his uneven yellow teeth, but then smiled brightly, assuming he must be another fan who had seen the play.

  At that instant, a familiar voice called from behind, “Rachel!”

  She turned to see her kid sister come barreling toward her through the rain.

  “Rachel, wait up!”

  She groaned. “What are you doing here?”

  Reggie splashed to a stop in front of her. “I was checking out the theater lights and stuff.”

  “I thought you went home with Mom and Dad.”

  “No, I’m riding home with you.”

  “Well, hurry up then,” she said. And as she hustled Reggie toward the car, she forgot all about the man with the umbrella, scarcely noticing as he slid away, silent as a ghost.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many kind souls deserve thanks for helping with some aspect of this novel, but the single most important person in the publishing process is you. Whether you’re holding an e-reader, a first edition, or a tattered copy, whether you chose this title on a recommendation or on a whim, you bring meaning to the arduous and privileged endeavor of putting ideas on the page. Without you, there would be no book.

  My thanks also to the many patient, insightful, and talented individuals who allowed me to impose on their goodwill. Deepest thanks to my critique group, Authors All: Karen Engelmann, Rachel Goldberg, Lynn Grant, and Marissa Silver. A thousand thanks also to Lois Gordon, Dr. Brian Grant, Dr. Robert Jones, and William A. Powers. And a special bow of gratitude goes to Sue Grafton.

  I pestered various authorities while researching this book, and I’m grateful to all who shared their time and expertise. In particular, I must thank Ayn Sandalo Dietrich, FBI Seattle public affairs officer; George Fong, former FBI special agent and current director of security for ESPN; Dr. Bruce Gage, chief of psychiatry for the Washington Department of Corrections and clinical associate professor at the University of Washington; Roy Hazelwood, former FBI supervisory special agent and cofounder of the Academy Group, Inc.; and Ben Reed, Jr., chief of police, Elko, Nevada. (These kind people deserve a ton of gratitude but not an ounce of blame. All errors are my own; please grant poetic license where you can. In particular, I ask the citizens of Washington State to forgive mischaracterized or fictitious institutions and topography.)

  Luckily, this book had the backing of a brilliant team, starting with my agent, Liza Dawson, and the excellent staff at her agency. Next, I owe endless thanks to my extraordinary editor, Hope Dellon, who worked tirelessly at getting my unruly manuscript into shape. I’m also grateful for the dedication and energy of everyone at Minotaur Books, particularly Andrew Martin, Jennifer Enderlin, Paul Hochman, Sarah Melnyk, David Rotstein, Meryl Gross, Silissa Kenney, and the many others who helped prepare these pages for publication.

  On a personal note, my love and gratitude goes out to my wonderfully supportive family.

  And finally, my most heartfelt thanks to Allen, who makes all things possible.

  HUNTED

  Carla Norton is the author of the Number One New York Times non-fiction bestseller, Perfect Victim: The True Story of the Girl in the Box and the true crime book Disturbed Ground. She was awarded a Royal Palm Literary Award for best unpublished mystery for The Edge of Normal. She served as the special sections editor for the San Jose Mercury News and has written for numerous newspapers and magazines, including the Los Angeles Tim
es and the San Francisco Chronicle. She has an MFA from Goddard College and has twice served as a judge for the Edgar Awards. Carla Norton lives in Florida.

  ALSO BY CARLA NORTON

  The Edge of Normal

  First published in the USA 2015 by St. Martin’s Press, New York

  First published in the UK 2015 by Macmillan

  This electronic edition published 2015 by Macmillan

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-5168-2

  Copyright © Carla Norton 2015

  Cover photographs: Cricket © Shutterstock, Background texture

  © Shutterstock, Houses © Patryce Bak / Getty Images

  The right of Carla Norton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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